


Voodoo Remoulade

by Silbrith



Series: Crossed Lines [10]
Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mardi Gras, Mystery, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25442734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: A vacation in New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras takes a dangerous left turn. February 2006.
Series: Crossed Lines [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/513628
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. Monsters

_Notes: Voodoo Remoulade takes place after the events in Progress of Love. The first chapter contains the essentials of the backstory for new readers._

* * *

**Federal Building. Wednesday, February 22, 2006.**

The slice of king cake wasn't necessary, but it was a nice touch. When Neal showed up at Peter's office with two plates of the colorful pastry along with French roast coffee, Peter didn't need to be a mind reader. "You want to go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras?"

Neal grinned. "How'd you guess?"

"Clue Number One is that purple tie."

"It's actually plum-colored," Neal corrected, removing the lids from the coffee cups.

"With green medallions," Peter continued, undeterred. He tucked a paper napkin over his tie to protect it from the brightly colored sugar. "It also helps that I overheard you and Travis discussing Mardi Gras yesterday afternoon."

It wasn't a surprise that White Collar's tech expert planned to attend. His partner Richard was from New Orleans and still had family there. But Peter hadn't expected they'd want someone else along on the vacation. Besides, he'd assumed Neal had been to Mardi Gras with his cousin Henry during the years they lived on the road.

"Richard's been in New Orleans for the past week," Neal explained. "His company was so intrigued by that Cthulhu Mythos video game we invented to catch a piracy ring that they decided to explore it further. Richard's down there with a couple of other artists scouting locations and drawing concept art."

Peter remembered Richard's boss explaining that the company had been playing with the idea of a Lovecraft-inspired game for a while. "Does that mean White Collar will receive royalties? As I recall, Diana dreamed up the fictitious scenario."

"I wouldn't hold your breath."

"You mean Diana hasn't hired Mozzie to negotiate suitable reimbursement?"

"She probably would have but he's currently in Japan. He's discussing a movie idea for the Masked Avenger with the anime company that produces the cartoon series. Apparently our yellow-faced bee hero has become a Godzilla-sized Japanese sensation." Neal eyed him hopefully. "Does that mean I have your approval?"

"How many days will you be away?"

"Monday and Tuesday. We'll take the red-eye express back to New York on Tuesday night."

"So you can sleep in the office on Wednesday and call it work?" Peter challenged.

"Never," Neal declared, with a smile alerting Peter to not take his words too seriously. "Unlike some I know, I sleep very well on planes."

"Don't rub it in. When will you leave?"

"Friday after work. Richard and his fellow artists rented a house in the Garden District for a week. The others have already experienced Mardi Gras and will leave on Friday to return to their families."

Peter thought for a moment. "You're due comp time from the Wilkes case. That should take care of Monday and Tuesday. You got an early start today. If you work through lunch and put in some extra time this afternoon, no one's going to object to you only working in the morning on Friday. The same applies for Travis."

Neal's smile broadened. "I should buy you king cake more often."

Peter waved away his thanks. "I'm taking Friday afternoon off too, though something tells me I'd much rather be flying to New Orleans."

Neal gave him a sympathetic wince. "Dentist appointment?"

"Worse. We agreed to babysit a two-year-old. El's sister and her husband are going to spend the weekend at a romantic inn for her birthday. They're dropping off their kid with us."

"You're taking care of a toddler? Have you ever had that pleasure before?"

"No, and El is as nervous as I am."

Neal's face lit up. "You're test-driving having a baby, aren't you?"

Peter exhaled. "Not me so much as El. She can be _very_ sneaky. She may have instigated her sister's trip expressly for this purpose."

Neal nodded, making commiserating sounds while munching on king cake. How he managed to eat it without getting a single fleck of green sugar on his purple—not plum—tie escaped Peter.

"But now as our day of reckoning approaches, El's beginning to have cold feet as well. She spent the entire evening reading parenting books. I want you to appreciate how noble I am in letting you go to New Orleans. I was counting on your help."

Neal crossed his arms in front of his chest, making an _X_. "What makes you think I'm any good with toddlers? I've been around small fry less than you. Surely you received basic training with your brother's girls?"

"Not really. I avoided them till they were in grade school. You, I can reason with. At times, you may act like a three-year-old—"

"—gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it, but I can wear you down with logic and reason. Even though it can take far too long, there's still hope. A toddler has no concept of right and wrong. There's no reasoning with them."

Neal rolled his eyes. "After being damned with faint praise, I don't know why I should help you, but I will."

"You'll call Mozzie and order him to return home so he can take my place?" Peter asked hopefully.

"Would you really leave him alone with El and a baby over the weekend?"

Peter made a face. "Forget I mentioned it."

"Henry would be a fine choice, but he's working in Baltimore this week. The person I'm thinking of is already here and has to obey you."

"Who are you talking about? Jones? He's taken care of his sister's kids on numerous occasions, but he and Helen are going away for the weekend."

Neal grinned. "So you admit you already asked him! But you left out the logical choice, and that's Diana. The way I see it, she owes you. She was the one who sanctioned El adding a pregnancy thread to Arkham Files. That arguably is the cause of your present predicament. Make Diana help out. It's the least she can do."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

What would Diana be like around a toddler? As Neal returned to his desk in the bullpen, he imagined the coming bedlam at Burke manor. Peter would be wise to call upon her assistance. If nothing else, bossing her around would make him feel better. And Diana had learned to tolerate Mozzie as a co-writer for her Arkham Files stories. How much worse could a two-year-old be?

Jones and Diana were in the breakroom helping themselves to slices of the king cake Neal had left on the table.

Jones beckoned him over. "Much appreciated, Caffrey. You're welcome to bring us back a cooler of crawfish or gumbo from New Orleans."

"Already taken care of," Neal assured him. "June asked her chef to prepare a gumbo lunch for you at the Arkham Round Table meeting next Tuesday. Costumes are optional but I'm told there will be plenty of beads and perhaps even a few doubloons."

Diana swallowed a bite of the cream-cheese-filled pastry. "Will Mozzie be back for the meeting?"

"I don't think so. If his business is done, he mentioned flying to New Orleans instead."

"Good. That will let the rest of us discuss his outline for the next story. What do you know about the Tudor Crown?"

Was this a trap? Neal eyed her warily. Surely Mozzie hadn't discussed his latest obsession with the woman he still called Lady Suit. Ever since Mozzie had latched onto a possible connection between Columbia University, the Culper Revolutionary War spy ring, and the Illuminati, he'd become convinced the fabled treasure was hidden somewhere in New England, perhaps even in Manhattan.

"Not much," Neal hedged, treading carefully. "It was a crown worn by Henry VIII. It disappeared during the English Civil War a century later. Most believe it was broken up with the jewels sold off separately. Why do you ask?"

"Mozzie wants to include it in the next Arkham Files story. He's concocted a bizarre plot around it." She scowled. "He's being very mysterious about why he wants it included." She jabbed a finger at him. "Does he suspect Rolf knows something about the crown?"

"He hasn't mentioned it to me," Neal said, staggered by the possibility. If there was a connection he couldn't see it. "It would help if you could tell me more about the plot."

"Not on your life," she rebuffed. "That's top secret." She wheeled toward Jones. "Since you're a recent inductee to the group, let this serve as a reminder. Our discussions are all need-to-know, and no amount of delicious pastries will weaken our resolve."

Neal didn't argue the point but by the way Jones rolled his eyes, Neal suspected he'd found a potential mole. A judicious amount of Jones's favorite Scotch would be the only grease needed. "Diana, did it slip your mind that you were the one asking _me_ for information? As a gesture of goodwill, here's something to chew on. Mozzie is attracted to any lost treasure like a moth to the flame. It doesn't matter if it's an original Dante manuscript or crown jewels. You shouldn't necessarily attach any hidden significance to it. Look how long he's been searching for Hitler clones."

"God, thank you for reminding me," she said, shuddering. "He'll probably want to write them in as well."

Neal turned to leave. There was no need to warn her about Peter's plans for the weekend. Why spoil the surprise?

"Before you go," Jones said, "got a question for you. Does Diana have any tats?"

"Don't answer that," Diana said sharply.

"I've never seen any," Neal answered honestly, but Diana's reaction made him wonder if he'd missed something.

Jones crossed his arms. "Proving my point."

Work could wait. "What's this about?"

"Diana's been pestering me about what tats I got in the Navy. She refuses to believe I don't have any."

Pouncing on the chance to score yet more points with Jones, Neal said, "I always assumed you're like me. Tats aren't advised if you engage in undercover work."

"Unless they're very well hidden," Diana countered. "Christie wants me to get one."

"What of?" Neal asked.

"An octopus. I already have an octopus mug. Why not?"

Neal groaned, inwardly dismayed. "Couldn't it be of something else? Maybe a starfish like your beanbag Peachy? There are enough tentacle creatures in the stories. If you insist on getting one, please don't tell me about it."

She frowned. "Are you getting sensitive to octopuses? Damn. I was going to ask you to make an octopus origami for my collection."

"Will you tell me what's happening in the next Arkham Files story?"

"Of course not."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Then I guess you're out of luck."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Much as he would have preferred it otherwise, Neal was forced to shove thoughts of Mardi Gras out of his head till Friday. Thursdays he spent at Columbia. The combination of an overstuffed schedule and an art history advisor who persisted in questioning him about his still-undecided dissertation topic had him cross-eyed by the end of the day. Sherkov's questions were particularly discouraging. Since Neal had to meet with him to discuss his master's thesis, he'd been unable to dodge the inquisition, and Sherkov was getting as good as Peter at demolishing his deflections. By his own timetable, Neal didn't even want to consider the topic till after spring break, but the brilliance of his reasoning escaped Sherkov.

After being pummeled by Sherkov, he was looking forward to a less stressful evening with Myra Stockman, his visual arts advisor. That used to be a non sequitur. During his first year at Columbia, she'd been only too happy to live up to her reputation of the Impaler. But in the past few weeks, Neal had detected a noticeable softening. Richard had remarked on it as well. Was she beginning to grow nostalgic now that they were in their final semester?

This evening he wasn't disappointed. She positively glowed with enthusiasm.

"Britta's holding a reception for the new artists she's added to her gallery. You're on the list," she said. "I'll do my best to keep it from going to your head."

"Too late, I'm already floating!" Britta was Myra's partner. She owned an art gallery in Morningside Heights. On Myra's recommendation, she'd included two of Neal's paintings from his first-year exhibition and both had sold.

Myra smiled. "An apt analogy. She'd like to feature that painting you did of bicycles floating in the clouds over the Manhattan skyline. I suggested she also include the one you'd painted of the Hudson River. The emotional range of the two is impressive."

An odd coincidence she'd picked those two. Neal had painted the river when he was convinced he'd have to flee New York to avoid being framed by Garrett Fowler for a crime he hadn't committed. He'd painted the bicycles when he was at the final stage of the con that cleared his name. That painting had been completed in a few hours—a new speed record that he had no intention of divulging to his advisor.

"Britta needs to hire an events planner for the reception," Myra added, "and I suggested she contact Peter's wife."

"I'm sure she'd be delighted. Elizabeth studied art in college, and she enjoys catering art-related functions. When will the reception take place?"

"Britta hasn't picked a date yet but it will be sometime in March. For now, put that out of your mind. I want you to take me through your progress on your exhibition paintings."

Neal had already lined them up along the wall, intending to start with the works that were the furthest along. Instead, she pounced on his most recent addition—the Miskatonic River. He'd started it at her recommendation. She'd challenged him to break through boundaries, but he wasn't at all sure the nightmarish depiction he'd painted of the fictional river was what she had in mind. The town was being whipped by a gale. The river seethed with hints of monsters lurking beneath the surface—an eye, the tip of a tentacle. Would she even spot them?

As Neal walked her through it, for once she didn't interrupt with a thousand questions.

"I haven't read any Lovecraft until last year," she said. "When you entered two paintings in the art competition at the sci-fi convention last year, I knew I needed to broaden my horizons. You've improved since then. There's a sense of lurking terror in the work that is evocative of the author."

Her praise was unexpected. "I doubt anyone will be interested in purchasing it," he said ruefully.

"Don't count the painting short," she retorted. "Look at how popular horror movies are. Apparently many people have a latent wish to be terrified. Turner did all right with his paintings of ships being tossed about during a hurricane." Her face grew stern. "You're new at this, and I'll give you a pass this time. It's natural to desire validation by selling your art, but you must never think about what a hypothetical purchaser might find appealing during the creative process. It will suffocate you more thoroughly than any tentacles."

As she pointed out aspects she liked, Neal was astonished to discover she'd found hints of monsters he hadn't realized were there. Had he subconsciously added them? Yesterday at work, even Diana's octopus mug made him uneasy. And Jones's joshing about an octopus tattoo had made his stomach feel like a cephalopod was churning inside him.

That was probably why he'd had a nightmare about being trapped underwater last night. He might be overly identifying with his Arkham counterpart. Or perhaps it was because of the cases he'd worked on with the Winchesters. He was starting to see monsters where none existed. Where was the kid who used to love haunted houses and wearing Dracula costumes at Halloween?

Myra was hammering at him to free himself from artificial constraints. Peter might scoff that he was already too much of a loose cannon, but Myra was right. He was letting himself be hemmed in by monsters both real and figurative.

Neal took a breath. Octopuses would be his first test. Before he developed a full-blown phobia about them, he vowed to turn them into his friends. He decided to make a watercolor sketch of one with long eyelashes and bows. Diana should love it.

Problem solved, he refocused on Myra, who was currently bashing his painting of the Seine. What would she look like in a t-shirt emblazoned with a pink octopus?

**Maia's House, New Haven, CT. Friday afternoon.**

After Dean's call, Sam sought Bobby out, Maia's Russian wolfhound Tatyana trotting alongside him. Whenever Maia was at Yale, Tatyana latched onto Sam. Maia claimed she liked him better than her.

Bobby had appropriated the garage as his workshop and that's where Sam found him. He was fitting boards together at the worktable while the Siamese cat Daphne supervised the proceedings from her perch on top of the hood of Bobby's truck.

"Are we guilty of seeing monsters that aren't there?" Sam asked. It had been bugging him all morning and his conversation with Dean just reinforced it.

Bobby paused long enough to scowl at him. "What kind of dumbass question is that?"

"Look at us. We've been walking around on eggshells in this house, worrying about what cursed objects or hexes may be among Astrena's belongings, but so far we haven't found anything dangerous."

"I know where this is coming from," Bobby grumbled. "You're feeling guilty that you're not in New Orleans with Dean. Here we are enjoying the good life in this posh mansion while Dean stays at some fleabag motel to investigate rumors."

"Not just that, but okay, it's part of it. Maia has been urging me to fly down and join him." Dean drove off in the Impala last weekend. A report had surfaced in the local newspaper about a couple of people who'd died after thinking they'd been cursed. New Orleans was currently without local hunters since a rugaru ganked the only one left.

Sam had been taking turns with Dean, working solo jobs ever since they moved into Astrena's house in New Haven. Once Maia's sister Electra was discovered to be the meatsuit for the goddess, a major concern was how much magic remained in the house and its furnishings. Astrena was the Greek goddess of witches and vampires. No one knew anything about what spells she could command, but they were bound to be extremely powerful. He and Dean had persuaded Bobby to move in to help monitor the situation.

What they'd learned was unsettling. Maia and Chloe were convinced many of the objects were enchanted, but figuring out the nature of each enchantment was proving to be a challenge. So far Maia had broken hexes on two paintings. Chloe could sense that some of the orchids in the grow room had spirits, but she couldn't tell if they were malicious or not.

The women didn't want to destroy the orchids because the flowers could prove to be beneficial. Chloe was especially adamant, claiming that the orchids were the equivalent of the armaments in the Impala and much too valuable to be destroyed. One species of orchid had been essential to sever Astrena's link to him and Neal. Were there others even more powerful?

"You should go," Bobby declared. "You'll feel guilty no matter where you are, but Dean could use your help."

Sam winced. Bobby had him nailed. When Maia was at Yale, he felt like he was a fifth wheel. "You'll call me if anything surfaces?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "You're already stressing about leaving? Yeah, I'll give you a holler."

Tatyana whined as if she understood he was taking off. At least she could be placated with dog treats. "What are you working on?" he asked Bobby idly.

"What's it look like, idjit? I'm building a box."

"Not just one box. You got boards of different sizes . . ." Sam lifted a canvas tarp and saw two dark boxes. One was shoebox-sized. The other looked like it could hold a painting. Both were painted with sigils. He turned to face Bobby. "What the hell's going on?"

Bobby shrugged dismissively. "Just a little insurance. These are curse boxes. Those sigils you see are in Enochian. You do know the angel language, right?"

Sam hesitated. "Not as well as I should."

"Here's a thought. On those long rambles you like to take with Maia you should enlist her help. She's an expert on ancient languages and Enochian has some similarities to Hebrew. Dean likes to brag about his geeky brother. This is a good time to reinforce it."

Looking at Bobby, it was easy to forget the depth of his knowledge. Despite his rough-hewn mannerisms, he was fluent in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Enochian, Japanese, and maybe other languages Sam didn't know about. Bobby's idea was a good one. He might not feel as guilty about enjoying life in New Haven if he was learning something practical. But Bobby's effort to change the subject wouldn't work.

"Why are you building curse boxes? And what do they do?"

"Relax before you get yourself into a snitch. I'm not building these just for the girls. I used to make them for your dad, and my supply's gotten low."

Sam wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily. "But?"

Bobby took a slow breath. "Look, it's only prudent to take some precautions. The girls are sensing enchantments. By rights, every suspicious item should be shut up in a box like this till we learn more. The sigils will keep an enchanted object contained until we can figure out how to dehex it." He scratched the side of his neck. "We probably should start with that netsuke collection. Chloe was studying them yesterday evening. She said her fingers tingled when she touched them."

"I hope it wasn't the rabbit. That's just about Dean's favorite object in the entire house."

When Sam's cell phone buzzed, he assumed it was Dean. He could tell him he was flying down and no matter how much Dean razzed him for being a mother hen, he wasn't going to change his mind. But instead of Dean, it was his look-alike.

"Hi, Henry. What's up?"

"Hey, Sam. I'm in Baltimore this week on business. The trip gave me the chance to track down descendants of Chester Ratherston."

"He was the friend of Seth Winslow, right?"

"That's the one. He was killed shortly before Seth disappeared. I located Ratherston's great-great-niece. She has a diary he'd kept."

"Does it contain anything helpful?" Sam knew Henry was counting on Chester to shed some light on what had happened to Seth.

"I'm not sure. He stopped writing in it about eight months before his death, and there's no mention of anything threatening."

"So, a dead end?"

"Not entirely. In one of his last entries, he referred to a group called the Men of Letters. Do you know anything about them?"

"No, but I'll check around," Sam promised.

When Sam ended the call, Bobby said, "I gather that was about your common ancestor."

"Yeah, Henry was able to obtain a diary from one of Seth's friends in Baltimore. He mentioned some group called the Men of Letters in his diary, and, get this, there's only one other entry after the note. Up to then, the man had made meticulous records of his daily activities. Henry said it was pretty boring stuff. He wondered if there could be any connection between the group and the fact that he stopped writing in his diary."

Sam noticed Bobby's scowl deepen as he related the gist of the call. "You know something about them, don't you?"

"Yeah, and it ain't pretty. The Men of Letters is a secret organization of scholars dedicated to tracking down monsters."

"So they're hunters?"

"Sort of. They're also egotistical snobs who hate our guts. They consider hunters to be riffraff unworthy of their notice."

"Why haven't I ever heard of them?" Sam demanded, shocked that a group of monster hunters could have escaped their notice for so many years.

Bobby pulled up a metal stool and perched on it. "Because they ain't around no more, at least not in the States. They were founded in England. American chapters popped up in the nineteenth century, but they'd all disappeared by 1960."

"What happened?"

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe internal squabbles with the Brits? Or they might have gotten fed up with hunting monsters. It's not exactly a glamor job."

Daphne jumped on top of Sam's lap and rubbed her head on his chest, demanding to be stroked. As Sam scratched behind her ears, he considered how the Men of Letters could be related to Seth Winslow. "Do you know if there was a Baltimore chapter?"

"No, but I could probably find out. You think Seth could have joined them?"

"Yeah, think about it, Bobby. Chester might have become a member then told his buddy Seth about them. Chester got killed fighting vamps or some other monsters. Maybe he'd enlisted Seth's help and Seth joined the chapter to help avenge his friend's death."

Bobby nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Seth's wife said he was having nightmares about vampires. Seth could have gone to Baltimore to help Chester eradicate a nest and Chester died during the struggle. The fangs could have followed Seth back to Philadelphia."

"It also explains the murder of Seth's neighbors. Seth could have feared the vampires had discovered his location and he had to flee in order to save his family."

"And change his name?" Bobby shrugged. "Others have done the same."

"And get this, Seth studied classical languages in college. A scholarly group probably would have welcomed him with open arms."

"Yeah, it sounds like he was a natural. In any case, it's ancient history. It helps to explain why Seth Winslow changed his name to Winchester and why he might be your great-great-granddaddy, but it ain't worth much in this world. " He raised an eyebrow. "Unless, that is, you wanna claim to be a Winslow?"

Sam chuckled. "Being a Winchester's good enough for me. Besides, our own lives are looking up." Tatyana rubbed against his leg as if to agree. "We're making the world a little bit safer, and now we've got a home."

Bobby nodded. He didn't have to add _Enjoy it while it lasts_. Sam already knew it would most likely be fleeting, but he still had a good feeling that this time they might beat the odds.

Sam stood up and deposited Daphne back on top of the truck hood. "I'll give Dean a call."

"To tell him about the Men of Letters?"

"Nah. That can wait. To let him know I'm coming down."

Bobby smiled. "Good. Keep him and yourself out of trouble. I'll do the same with the girls."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Richard was waiting for Neal and Travis at the airport when their plane landed. The house Richard had rented was in the Garden District near Loyola University. The pale green frame house looked to have been built in the late 1800s. A second-floor balcony and black wrought-iron railing added to its charm. Richard explained that the furnished four-bedroom house was used for short-term corporate stays.

After stopping just long enough to drop off their gear, they strolled over to St. Charles Avenue for the parade of the Krewe of Morpheus. Neal had stripped off his jacket before leaving the house. The humid warmth was a welcome change after the snowy conditions in New York.

Hurricane Katrina had hit only six months ago. This year's Mardi Gras was a scaled-down version of its normal size. The theme of the Morpheus parade was "Dreams of Travel" and as Neal scrambled for trinkets, he was one of the lucky ones to catch a doubloon. The plastic beads weren't up to Sara's standard, but he could make a joke out of them.

One of the floats appeared to be inspired by _20,000 Leagues under the Sea._ A giant octopus grappled an old fishing boat mounted on a trailer. An octopus had never figured into Neal's dreams of travel but he laughed along with everyone else. It was a good test of his plan to desensitize himself to tentacles.

Once the parade had moved past their location, Richard recommended letting the crowd disperse before heading for the French Quarter. They took advantage of the lull to have dinner at a Creole restaurant near Richard's house and then followed it up with a ride downtown on the streetcar. The tracks ran along St. Charles Avenue, a short walk away. Neal sat next to the window so he could view the sprawling Victorian mansions lining the broad boulevard. Immense live oaks draped with Spanish moss added a park-like feel to the surroundings. As the streetcar clattered along the tracks, Richard pointed out some of the highlights. The effects of the hurricane were still very much in evidence, but Neal was surprised that there was less damage than he'd expected. Richard explained that the worst-hit areas were for the most part not tourist destinations. The French Quarter had escaped with minimal damage.

Since it was Neal's first trip, Richard insisted he get into the spirit of the Quarter by first walking along Bourbon Street. The experience was an assault to the senses. The neon lights appeared to pulsate to the raucous music of all genres pouring out of the bars and strip clubs. Richard's ultimate destination was a jazz club off Bourbon Street where he used to play when he was in college, but he said they wouldn't appreciate the relative quiet till they'd seen the rowdy side of the Quarter.

Travis squinted at the crowd. "Is that Henry up ahead? I thought you told me he was in Baltimore."

Neal checked out the fellow sporting jeans, work boots, and a leather jacket. "That's Dean Winchester." Since he was coming out of a strip club, the odds were high that Chloe wasn't with him.

Neal darted ahead to catch him before he took off, Richard and Travis at his heels. Not that they needed to hurry. Judging by Dean's saunter, he was feeling no pain. Neal didn't call out. These days, Dean worked undercover more than Neal.

"Enjoying the nightlife?" Neal asked, falling in step with him.

Dean gave a startled smile. "You here for Mardi Gras?"

"Yeah, with Richard and Travis." He nodded to the two who'd moved beside them. "This is Richard's home turf." There was no need for introductions, especially after the events in New Haven a month ago.

"Are you here for business or pleasure?" Travis asked.

Dean glanced back at the strip club. "If I said I'm on a job, you probably wouldn't believe me but sometimes you can get the best tips in dives like this."

Neal agreed with him but didn't comment further. Did he really want to know what kind of job brought Dean to New Orleans? If Neal didn't find out, it would be easier to deflect any questions Peter might ask.

"Is Sam with you?" Richard asked, scanning the crowd.

"He's arriving tomorrow."

"Anything we should know?" Travis asked warily. "Peter's not here and I'm under orders to steer everyone clear of any trouble, demonic or otherwise."

"I don't suppose that's a joke?" Neal asked even though he was fairly confident of the answer. So much for remaining ignorant. If Peter was already stressing, he might as well learn the gory details.

Travis shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, those were his exact words. It was my fault. I made an off-the-cuff remark about how Richard was into voodoo as a kid." He shrugged helplessly. "How was I to know Peter had just watched that James Bond movie set in New Orleans?"

Dean's face lit up. " _Live and Let Die_? Man, that flick is awesome. The gators, the car chase through the swamp, bring it on!"

"And don't forget the voodoo," Richard added. "That's the best part."

"I remember Travis mentioning you were into voodoo," Dean said. "I was going to call Bobby, but Cajun mojo isn't really his area."

"You got a question about hoodoo, voodoo, whatever, I'm your guy," Richard said confidently. "I must know every horror tale associated with New Orleans."

"Why don't you join us at Guillaume's?" Travis suggested. "We were heading there. It's a jazz club off the beaten path. Not too noisy to talk."

"I hope they got beer," Dean said. "None of this Hawaiian punch stuff you see tourists carrying around."

Neal smiled. "Check. Nothing with a paper umbrella." What would Peter say if he knew Dean was here? He already had plenty to stew about with the two-year-old mini-monster coming to town. Besides, voodoo was nothing like vampires and witches, right?

* * *

_Notes: Thanks for reading! Voodoo Remoulade has 3 chapters which I'll post weekly on Wednesday. Enochian, also known as the angel language, wasn't invented by the Supernatural writers. The occult language was recorded by the sixteenth-century alchemist and occultist John Dee who claimed it had been revealed to him by angels._

_Many thanks to Penna Nomen for beta help during this journey into Cajun Country. Readers of my previous Crossed Lines stories know that a certain demon currently resides in New Orleans. He'll make an appearance next week. Dean will also reveal why he's in town. My blog post, "[Destination: Voodoo Remoulade](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2020/07/destination-voodoo-remoulade.html)," has an introduction to the story. _

_Background to the series for new readers: In the pre-canon Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, FBI Special Agent Peter Burke recruited con artist and expert forger Neal Caffrey in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant at the White Collar task force in New York City. Sam and Dean Winchester are demon-hunting brothers. Sam is roughly the same age as Neal. Dean is four years older than Sam. Peter is fifteen years older than Neal. For those familiar with the Supernatural timeline, the action is set early in the second season of Supernatural. The Crossed Lines page on our blog has more background information about the stories._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_  
 _Chapter Visuals and Music: The Voodoo Remoulade board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_  
 _Twitter:_ [_@silbrith_](https://twitter.com/silbrith)  
  



	2. Fifolet

**Guillaume's Jazz Club. Friday, February 24, 2006.**

The jazz club was just as Richard had promised—a low-key dive in a converted warehouse. The cavernous space had plenty of seating, and there was a wide assortment of local brews on tap. If it only had a pool table and played rock music, Dean would happily make it his base of operations. Base case, it was a helluva lot better than his current dive near the airport.

When Travis offered to pick up the first round of beers, Dean felt even more expansive.

"What brought you to New Orleans?" Richard asked.

"Last weekend there was a police report of a man who claimed to be haunted by a ball of blue light. He started attacking people on the streets. The police figured he was either high on drugs or plastered out of his skull. During a routine medical exam, the guy became hysterical, keeled over, and died."

"The ball of blue light reminds me a little of the will-o'-wisps we saw in the New Jersey swamp," Neal said.

"I thought of them too," Dean agreed, "but the swamp is several miles away, and there are no other reports of will-o'-wisps."

"Did anyone bring up the possibility of extraterrestrials?" Travis asked, and when Richard and Neal started laughing, added, "I didn't say I believed they were the cause."

"Only in jest," Dean said. "The results of the autopsy were disconcerting though. The guy wasn't drunk, and he didn't have any drugs in his system. The doc said he had some kind of seizure. They labeled it cardiac arrest, but don't seem very confident. The report was odd, but hell, so are a lot of others. It wouldn't have been enough to make me come down"—he paused to scan the group—"but when it happened again, I figured it was worth a trip."

"Same circumstances?" Neal asked, startled.

"Yeah. Judging by the police chatter, the cops are baffled." He shrugged. "When a death can't be explained, that's a pretty good sign it falls within my job description."

Travis turned to Richard. "You ever hear of anything like that?"

"The ball of blue light sounds like it could be a fifolet. Most people dismiss the stories as superstitious nonsense about swamp gas. When I was a teenager, a buddy and I used to row a pirogue into the marsh but we never could find one."

"Pirogues, fifolets—what are you, a Cajun in disguise?" Dean demanded.

Richard smiled acknowledgment. "On my mother's side."

"Members of Richard's family claim to be descendants of Jean Lafitte," Neal added.

"And that explains my fascination with fifolets," Richard said. "According to the legends, the pirate buried chests of treasure in the swamps south of New Orleans. When he buried his loot, he killed one of his men to act as the treasure's guardian. Voodoo was supposedly used to bind the man's ghost to the treasure. It manifests itself as a fifolet—a ball of blue light. If anyone tries to steal the treasure, they're cursed to be pursued by the fifolet. If the stolen loot isn't returned"—Richard winced—"it's curtains."

"The victim didn't happen to have any pirate loot on him?" Travis asked Dean.

"No, but there is a smuggling connection. That's what I found out in the strip club." Dean smiled at them. "You see, I was there on business. The vic was a suspected member of a cartel who smuggles cocaine into Louisiana from Columbia."

"So it could be a fifolet!" Neal said, his face lighting up. "A seaplane could have dropped a load of cocaine somewhere in the swamp. When the gang members tried to find it, they discovered pirate treasure instead."

As the others excitedly picked up the thread and began to elaborate on it, Dean realized the idea wasn't as whacked out as he'd initially thought. He and Sam had already dealt with numerous examples of vengeful spirits tied to objects.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Bloody hell. Not them again." Crowley sighed and took a second look before ducking behind a newsstand. What curse had he been plagued with that the Winchester scum had him on their radar?

Up to now, the Crescent City had surpassed his expectations. Its sultry decadence appeared to have been designed with him in mind, and he'd made sure there were no hunters around to annoy him. Astrena's pure-blood Jeremy had transformed the jazz club Crowley had acquired for him into one of the trendiest spots in the Quarter. The vampire hackers were worlds more discreet than their New York counterparts. Gone were the days Crowley needed to grovel before an imperious goddess. He'd forged an alliance with a sensual New Orleans temptress named Rana who knew how to use her demonic gifts to give ultimate pleasure. Not only did she run the best whorehouse in the Crescent City, but she was smart enough to ensure Crowley's pleasure meter was always on tilt.

Best of all, thanks to the demons Crowley had placed in key government positions, his enterprises were free from harassment. Until now, that is.

No sign of Sam. Surely Dean hadn't left his moose of a brother at home. Was Sam even now spying on the jazz club? And why was Dean patrolling with Cheekbones? Who were the two others? Agents? Or worse, hunters? Crowley thought he'd bugged out of New York without a trace. How had they tracked him to New Orleans?

Now they were in his city and so bloody arrogant that they didn't attempt to conceal their movements even though they were only yards away from the club. It was as if they were daring him to try something.

_All right, you asked for it, mates._ Crowley sent a command on his cell phone for reinforcements. Until they showed up, he'd track them personally. They should feel honored.

When the group ducked into a jazz club—not Jeremy's fortunately—he paused to reconsider. Dean was into rock music, not jazz. Was this really Dean? It could be Henry instead. That would be more logical since Henry and Neal were cousins. It would also explain why Sam wasn't there.

But that raised an equally vexing issue. Henry was one of the Men of Letters. Crowley had already discovered that the investigation company he worked for was a front for the secretive eggheads. What if those two other blokes were as well? Having hunters in town was bad enough, but the Men of Letters would be even worse. There used to be a chapter in New Orleans. Had it reopened as well?

This year had been one setback after another. First the death of Alcy. He'd found about her demise through Drasko who'd reported the Winchesters had been responsible. Dick Tracy Burke and Cheekbones had also been present.

Then Astrena disappeared from her house in New Haven. Crowley had checked with Astrena's sister Gemma. She believed the goddess had somehow been banished back to the stars. In what couldn't have been a coincidence, the Winchesters along with Cheekbones and his bird of the moment were in town during the exact same weekend Astrena vanished.

Had the Men of Letters now banded together with hunters to hunt him down? Crowley's stomach cramped at the thought Cheekbones could have turned on him too. Hagen and the paint-pusher had once been brothers of a sort. That should have made Crowley at least an uncle. He'd even assisted Maia in protecting Cheekbones and her precious Sam from Astrena. And this was the thanks he got?

Or was something else going on? Perhaps another demon moving into his territory? And where were Crowley's bloody minions?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal awoke on Saturday morning, the house was quiet. They'd stayed up late the previous night, and there were no sounds coming from Travis and Richard's room. Dean had left his door ajar and was still dead to the world. It hadn't taken much effort to persuade him to move in with them. The house had bedrooms to spare. There would be plenty of space for Sam when he arrived.

Neal padded silently into the kitchen to heat a kettle of water on the stove. He'd already discovered Richard's stash of French roast coffee with chicory and planned to use an old-fashioned white enamel French press to make the coffee.

Behind the house was a small patio and garden. When the coffee was ready, Neal took a seat under the shade of a large magnolia tree to call Sara. The azaleas were already in bloom. He could imagine her sitting next to him.

She took the news of Dean being in town well. "I must have been psychic," she said. "I started rereading _Interview with the Vampire_ in honor of you being in New Orleans _._ I hope that doesn't mean you'll encounter any."

"I haven't asked Dean if they're around," Neal admitted. It was a relief Sara took the news of a hunter being in town in stride. Neal didn't want to think about what Peter's reaction would have been.

"You're not going to tell Peter about the fifolet, are you?" she asked as if reading his mind.

"He has enough on his plate with the two-year-old. I discussed it with Travis, and we agreed it's not necessary to fill him in. Travis brought his work laptop. He accessed the Bureau database last night." Since this wasn't an official FBI case, Neal didn't have to conceal the details. "Both of the murder victims have extensive profiles which confirm their smuggling activities. Dean had obtained an address for the second victim during his visit to the strip club. We're going to check it out later today."

"Just remember to stick to loot from the parades, and don't go wandering into the swamp for pirate treasure. You've already experienced one curse. No need for a repetition."

"Don't worry, I wouldn't think of searching for doubloons without my first mate." Sara was as fond of playing pirate as he was, but this was one dream they'd keep a fantasy.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley lay in bed watching the ceiling fan circle lazily overhead. Rana was still asleep. He propped himself up on an elbow to admire her. Her warm brown skin was the opposite of Astrena's glacial look. Where the Queen of the Stars had been all ice and disdainful sarcasm, Rana was fiery charm. Her long afro appeared to come alive when they were having at it. She'd been a witch before she added demon to her profile. Many of her girls were the same way. Prostitution was more than ever an addictive pleasure.

Yes, his was a cushy life, and he wasn't about to let anyone ruin it.

"You look pleased with yourself," Rana said, pulling him down next to her. "Did you take care of the intruders?"

He nodded with satisfaction. "By the end of the day, they'll be my unwitting allies." The fangs he'd assigned to tail them discovered it was Dean, not Henry, in town. The Impala was the giveaway. No matter. For his purposes, Dean would do just as well.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean was glad to have Richard along to help with directions as he would have had a hard time finding the vic's apartment on his own. The suspected smuggler lived in a dingy apartment building north of downtown. Most of the buildings hadn't been patched up since the hurricane. They all looked like they could be blown away by a stray gust of wind.

"This is typical of large areas of the city," Richard said. "Even if you have enough money to finance repairs, finding qualified workmen is a nightmare."

The vic lived on the third floor. The door was locked, but Neal had it open before Dean could get out his lock picks. Show off.

The one-bedroom dive looked like it was a transient flophouse. Scattered beer bottles littered the floor. The air stank of old beer and week-old pizza. The bathroom would give anyone nightmares. Dean suspected the police didn't know about it since there were no signs the place had been searched.

"Looks like two people lived here," Neal said, pointing to the twin unmade beds in the bedroom.

"A pillow and blanket are behind the couch," Travis reported. "A third person could have used it as well." He and Neal were the pros at conducting searches. They delegated Richard to search through a stack of books and magazines on top of the dresser.

But Dean had done his share of rummaging too. He often had the best luck with closets, and that's where he headed first. There wasn't much to go through—a few pairs of jeans, some old shirts, a weatherproof fisherman's jacket. When he turned the jacket pockets inside out, a collection of fishing lures jangled onto the floor. Among the bits of metal and feathers was the glint of gold.

Dean crouched on the floor to take a closer look. Something had gotten snagged in the hooks and it wasn't a minnow. Carefully he pried it loose.

"What did you find?" Richard asked, eyeing the coin. "An old Mardi Gras doubloon?"

Dean tossed it to him. Neal and Travis came over to get a closer look. Most of the surface was crusted over with some sort of black gunk.

Neal offered to clean it so they could tell what it was. He took it into the kitchen and rummaged in the cabinet for soap. Unexpectedly, there was an old bottle of dishwashing liquid that was practically full. It was clear it hadn't been used recently. There were so many dirty dishes, Neal's first challenge was simply emptying the sink so he could get to work.

"Did you see any toothbrushes in the bathroom?" Neal asked.

"There was an old one," Richard said. "For cleaning metal, it should be okay. I'll get it for you."

Neal spread out an old dishtowel and placed the coin on top of it. Dean leaned against the kitchen counter to watch the process. "You think this might be pirate treasure?"

"Could be. It's much heavier than the cheap doubloons they toss off floats. We should know soon enough. If it's copper or silver, it may be corroded too badly to tell, but gold generally isn't damaged by being underwater."

"If it's a doubloon from a pirate's treasure chest, will it be cursed?" Travis asked warily.

"Hey, no guarantees," Dean said. "But I called Bobby last night and the only references he could find to curses were for the discoverer of the loot. So we should be in the clear."

"There's a way to find out," Richard said. "I have a friend who's into voodoo. She owns a shop in the Quarter—mainly innocent touristy stuff—but don't let that fool you. Gabrielle is an expert. Her mother and grandmother both practiced the art as well."

Neal took a breath. "We better schedule an appointment." He dried the coin with the towel and placed it on the palm of his hand.

"Is that real gold?" Travis asked, staring at it.

Neal nodded. "This is the genuine article—a Spanish doubloon." He turned it over so they could see the reverse side. It showed the silhouette of a head in profile which looked a little like George Washington. "The inscription is still legible." He pointed to the edge of the coin. "The image is of Charles IV, who ruled Spain in the late 1700s. The coin is stamped with his name and the date of 1798."

"That corresponds to Lafitte's timeline," Richard said excitedly. "He and his brother were active in southern Louisiana during the first decades of the nineteenth century."

"Where's the rest of the loot?" Travis asked. "There may have been more smugglers involved than we know about."

"Or they could have intended to go back and retrieve the chest," Neal suggested. "It may have been too heavy for them to bring back with the tools they had available."

"Perhaps they only found a few scattered coins and not the chest itself," Richard said. "That stack of magazines was mainly porn, but there was a map of Lake Salvador stuck in one of them."

"That could be the location where the drug stash was supposed to be," Travis speculated. "Where is the lake relative to New Orleans?"

"About twenty miles southwest of here," Richard said. "It would make a good hiding place. The lake is surrounded by swamps. It's not very deep so anything resting on the bottom wouldn't be far below the surface. The kicker is that Jean Lafitte and his brother were known to operate in that area in the early 1800s. The privateer ships of the day came equipped with pirogues for use in shallow bodies of water."

"Before you get excited about looking for pirate treasure, we got a bigger issue," Dean reminded them, "That's finding out if this object is cursed." He checked the time on his watch. He still had a few hours before Sam was due to arrive. "Richard, point the way to your voodoo queen."

Maybe it was simply because they'd been worried about cursed objects in Electra's house, but Dean had a bad feeling about that doubloon.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Gabrielle's shop was a tiny hole-in-the-wall filled with voodoo dolls, oils, and candles. Neal suspected most of her business consisted in selling candles and incense to tourists. He wondered if she was the one who'd taught Richard about voodoo dolls. Richard kept one dangling from the whiteboard in his art studio and another in his fencing locker. He claimed he used them for good luck. Could that be why their fencing team was unbeaten this year?

Gabrielle was about their age with delicate features and a soft Cajun lilt to her voice. Her light brown skin hinted of mixed ethnicities. Richard had attended high school with her and afterward participated in a few séances she'd given with her mother.

When Richard explained the purpose of their visit, she reversed the handpainted sign hanging on her front door to indicate the shop was closed.

"It's best we talk in the back," she said.

"Do you conduct readings?" Neal asked.

"Not often. There are so many charlatans in the Quarter that they've given the trade a bad name. My mother, though, is a famous psychic."

"Your mom assured me you're even more talented," Richard said.

She shrugged modestly. "These days I use the gift mainly as a tool for myself. Then, if I'm wrong, I'm the only one affected."

Neal noticed Travis eyeing the round table uneasily. Travis hadn't been present for any of the séance sessions with Peony. This would likely be an uncomfortable experience for him. Dean, though, was used to it. The crystal ball in the center probably wasn't disconcerting at all.

Gabrielle's first step was to light incense. She said it would help keep evil spirits at bay. "Who has the doubloon?" she asked.

"I do," Dean said. "I touched it first. I figured if it has any bad mojo, I'm the one who's the most tainted."

Good try, but privately Neal had his doubts. He was the one who'd cleaned it. If this was going to be the start of another long curse, he was going to place Chloe on speed dial. Just the possibility made him wish she was accompanying Sam on the plane.

Gabrielle placed a crystal plate on the table and directed Dean to lay the doubloon on the center of its surface. As she studied it, she began murmuring in a foreign language. The words sounded French but the accent threw Neal off. His best guess was that it was a version of Creole patois. As she continued to chant, a wooden rattle on the wall began to shake. The air felt unsettled. Her warm brown eyes grew intense as she studied each of them in turn. Neal tensed as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Gabrielle then took out a deck of cards and shuffled them. She placed the top five cards face up on the table and studied the cards for a minute before turning to Richard. "You were right to come to me. The doubloon is cursed."

Travis cleared his throat, a skeptical look on his face. "How can you tell? I've heard the tales and I agree something caused those men to die, but is there any way to document the curse?"

She smiled ruefully. "I'm not surprised you have doubts. True voodoo has been given a bad reputation by all the charlatans who prey on the gullibility of others. The depictions in movies haven't helped. Don't get me started on the damage done by movies like _Live and Let Die_."

Neal noted Dean's wince. Sam mentioned Dean loved movies with car chases. There was a classic one in that movie. "Could I see your tarot deck?" Dean asked, perhaps to change the subject. "It doesn't look like any I'm familiar with."

She handed it to him. "This is a voodoo tarot deck. There are many tourist versions, but this one was created by my grandmother." She stood up and retrieved a portable fluorescent light. "The cards tell me that Travis, Neal, and Dean have all been marked."

Neal took a breath. _Not again_. He still had a hard time taking seriously any curse by something called a fifolet.

"What about me?" Richard asked. "I handled it too."

"I know. For some reason you weren't marked."

"Perhaps it's because of your connection to Lafitte," Neal suggested. "You told me your family claimed to be descended from him." He turned to Gabrielle. "The fifolet is supposed to be the spirit of a dead pirate, right?"

"I wouldn't go that far," she cautioned. "It's a ghost protecting any object." She shrugged. "But the curse is voodoo and it's only been known to be used with pirate treasure."

"So it's possible he senses Richard's ancestry," Neal persisted.

She nodded. "Blood will out."

"I don't find that very reassuring," Richard said. "The rest of you are cursed. I might as well be too."

"Don't think of it that way," Travis urged. "You could be our saving grace." He turned to Dean. "Have you heard of ghosts who show preferential treatment?"

"It's actually pretty standard," Dean said. "A ghost is someone who has a reason to linger. Often it's to seek vengeance, but sometimes they stay around because of a strong desire to protect someone. Ghosts can sense who our ancestors are. Sam and I've encountered spirits who've gone after descendants many generations removed from them."

While Dean was talking, Gabrielle plugged in the light. "You asked for proof. Hold out the palms of your right hands."

They obediently placed their hands on the table's surface. When Gabrielle switched on the light, the violet-colored tube indicated it was a black light. Under its ultraviolet beam, they could see the image of the doubloon branded onto the palms of all of them except Richard.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled under his breath. "The curse is real."

Neal stared at his palm. It didn't feel any different. As soon as Gabrielle switched off the light, the brand vanished.

"How do we get rid of the curse?" Richard asked. "Isn't there some kind of counterspell that acts as an antidote?"

Gabrielle shook her head. "I don't know of any. The fifolet curse is one of the most powerful voodoo curses known to exist. The only recorded way to remove it is to return the stolen property to its rightful owner."

"How about if we just go back to New York?" Travis asked. "Surely there's an expiration date on these things."

She shook her head. "Sorry, but the curse doesn't work like a battery. And don't presume that you can outrun it. There are reports of fifolets following thieves all the way to Europe."

Neal grimaced. "Just our luck. We have the Cajun version of the mummy's curse." Peter was not going to let him take a trip ever again.

"We've got our marching orders," Dean said, taking a breath. "We'll have to go to the lake and somehow find the spot where the doubloon was found."

"It may not be as difficult as it sounds," Gabrielle said. "The fifolet will be seeking you out. The trick is to hold him off from attacking you before you're able to return the doubloon."

"Any suggestions on how to accomplish that?" Neal asked.

"You'll be safe in daylight," she explained. "The fifolet only comes out after sunset."

That wasn't much of a consolation. It was already mid-afternoon.

"I can prepare gris-gris bags for you," she added. "They're talismans to protect against magic, although honestly, I doubt they'll be much good against a fifolet. Still, they'll mark you as under voodoo protection, and that may carry a little weight with the spirit."

When Gabrielle left to prepare the talismans, Dean said, "I'll need to leave in a few minutes to pick up Sam at the airport. You want me to drop you off at the house first?"

"Good idea," Travis said, rummaging through his backpack. "Before you leave, I'd like you to take my spare GPS locator. You should also wear my watch."

"Is this what you used at that New Jersey state park last summer?" Dean asked.

"It's an improved model. No one should take this threat lightly," Travis added, giving an excellent imitation of Peter's stern look. "Not after two men have already died. Neal and my watches are identical. I won't need one since I'll be with Richard and Neal."

"Thanks, man," Dean said, slipping the watch on. "I wish Sam and I had access to your Bond gadgets more often."

Travis tried to pay Gabrielle for her services, but she refused to bill them. "Richard painted the murals in the shop for me when I opened the shop," she explained. "I'm glad I can finally reciprocate." She turned to him. "You'll let me know what happens?"

"Of course," Richard said, giving her a hug as they left.

By the time Dean dropped them off at the house, another krewe was due to parade along St. Charles Avenue. The street in front of their house was parked solid.

Neal thought about calling Sara, but she was probably already asleep. In a way, it was a relief. How could he possibly explain the curse? And he didn't even want to think about how Peter would react. Their only hope was to return the doubloon to its rightful ghost-owner.

Richard unlocked the front door. "Good thing I'd stocked up on food. I have crawfish and gumbo in the fridge."

"I better check in with the office," Travis said as he stepped into the living room.

Neal winced. "I hope you're not calling Peter."

"No, but I better let Jones know. Somebody in New York needs to be aware of the situation—"

Neal felt a rush of air then a prick on his neck. He was slammed to the ground before he could defend himself. His senses faded as his assailant loomed over him, the fangs in his mouth plainly visible.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Jeremy was out when Crowley arrived at his office. He poured himself a Scotch and sat at the pure-blood's desk to wait. Jeremy's office was a duplicate of what he'd had in New York, down to the purple velvet antique sofa and stuffed peacocks. Jeremy had shipped all the furnishings from New York to New Orleans. The opulent Victorian furniture was much better suited to his new establishment. The Blue Crescent Jazz Club was an altogether more refined experience than the noisy surroundings of Riffs. It catered to an upscale crowd with sophisticated jazz, exotic cocktails, and even more exotic service staff.

The vampires of the Blue Crescent were a different breed. Smart, androgynous, sexy—they were recruited to be in the same mode as Drasko. That tech-savvy vampire had barely escaped the debacle in Venice. Crowley was glad to have him back and installed once more in his former job. Drasko was an expert in ID fraud, and thanks to him, the operation was purring once more.

Jeremy opened the door. His New Orleans look was a black suit, dark maroon shirt, and narrow black tie. The colors accentuated his pallor.

"Have you heard back?" Crowley asked.

He nodded. "They captured three of the targets. Winchester wasn't present. Marie's kiss worked like a charm on the others."

"Rana was confident it would." She'd developed the poison, copying the effect of dead man's blood which hunters used so effectively against fangs. The voodoo potion in the darts was named after Rana's famous ancestor, the Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau, and caused instant unconsciousness.

Crowley now held all the cards. He could afford to take his time to play his hand. Dean wouldn't elude him for long. Crowley intended to torture the group to find out what they knew about the Men of Letters then Jeremy could use his pure-blood mojo to wipe their memories. They'd never know Crowley had been involved.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"I knew I shouldn't have let you come to New Orleans by yourself," Sam said.

Dean snorted. "It's a good thing you weren't with me. You would have held the doubloon too, and we both would have been marked."

He had a point but Sam wasn't willing to acknowledge it. As Dean drove down a street of Victorian-era mansions and live oak trees, it was difficult to believe an ancient pirate curse could be an issue. And when Dean first told him about it, Sam's initial reaction was that Dean was pulling another of his infamous pranks. But Dean had never been able to maintain a straight face for very long, and now he had the grim all-business look of a hunter on patrol.

"It does seem ironic," Sam said, finding himself in the unlikely position of trying to lighten the mood, "that after all the stressing I was going through about cursed objects in Maia's house, you were the one to get snared."

"My lucky day, I guess," Dean agreed gloomily, pulling into the driveway. "This is the place."

Sam nodded appreciatively. Whenever their jobs were connected with Neal, their accommodations were always several grades about their standard flophouse.

But Dean was eyeing the house uneasily.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked.

"No lights are on, that's what," Dean said, reaching for his gun. "Travis assured me they'd stay here till we arrived."

Sam's flight had been delayed and the sun had already set by the time the plane touched ground. It was dark when they arrived at Richard's house. There was no way the guys could work without lamps of some sort. Had the fifolet already struck?

* * *

_Notes: Cursed doubloons, vampires, a paranoid demon, and a fifolet. You'd think that would be enough for one story but the threats keep coming in Chapter 3. There's a picture of the doubloon the guys discovered on the Pinterest board._

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_   
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Voodoo Remoulade board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_   
_Twitter:[@silbrith](https://twitter.com/silbrith)_


	3. Buccaneers

**Richard's house, New Orleans. February 26, 2006. Saturday evening.**

Dean scanned the living room and frowned. "They didn't put up much of a struggle. Not a surprise for Neal and Richard, but Travis is a trained agent. I would have expected more from him."

Sam picked up a metal floor lamp that was lying on the floor and set it upright. "But there's enough stuff out of place to indicate there was at least some resistance."

"I guess, and, on the bright side, there are no bloodstains."

Sam took a slow breath. "And the guys aren't lying on the floor, incapacitated or worse. So maybe a fifolet wasn't involved."

"Not necessarily. Each of the two previous vics complained of seeing the fifolet for a few days before they died. Personally, I was banking on being terrorized for a while before it ganked me."

"They could have fled the house in a panic while being pursued," Sam suggested. "The front door wasn't locked."

"Yeah, maybe." But Dean's gut was telling him it was something else. He retrieved the GPS gismo Travis had lent him. "Travis said this was easy to operate. All I need to do is turn it on. He'd preset it to Neal's watch. I hope he's right."

"And that Neal's still wearing his watch," Sam added.

"Like you said," Dean agreed. Sam approached as he flicked it on. A couple of seconds later, a flashing point appeared on the grid. "You see a map around here?" Dean asked. "Richard picked up a USGS map of New Orleans this morning. It was in a cardboard tube."

Sam found it lying in the hallway after a brief search. He unrolled the map and spread it out on the dining room table.

Son of a bitch, the coordinates pointed to Lake Salvador. Had the fifolet dragged them back to its home base? And how could one fifolet manage three grown men?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal woke with a groan, his head pounding. The last time he'd felt this bad was when the Mafia had poured grappa down his throat in Italy. At least there he'd had a few minutes of euphoria before the hangover settled in.

He was lying on a wood plank floor. Someone had wrapped him in a cocoon of galvanized chain. He could barely budge an inch. Travis and Richard were in similar shape. They were in darkness but the light in an adjoining room provided a little illumination. The ramshackle place appeared to be a fishing shack. It appeared to have been abandoned for some time. The only furniture to be seen consisted of a few rusted metal chairs.

"You okay?" Travis whispered.

"Yeah. Richard?"

"Just some scrapes," he whispered back. "Our abductors are in the other room. They're vampires."

"I know." The large fangs of Neal's assailant were about all he remembered from the attack. He glanced down at the chains encircling his body and didn't see any blood. "Any bites?"

"None that I can see," Travis said. "We woke up a few minutes before you. There are at least four in the other room. They're playing poker."

"Why didn't they kill us?" Richard asked, a quaver in his voice. "Are they saving us for a feast?"

"Not likely," Neal scoffed, putting on a brave face for Richard's sake. He wished he actually believed that. Sam had told him vampires often kept their victims alive till they were hungry. "We're so trussed up, they couldn't feed on us even if they wanted to."

"Someone has to know how good Neal is at escaping," Travis said. "You're bound much more thoroughly than we are. My hunch is Crowley's involved."

"I bet you're right," Neal agreed. "We know he works with vampires. But it's been a long time since we saw him, and that was in New York. Why wait till now to attack us?" The last reported sighting of Crowley had been several months ago when the demon along with Diana and Jones had been taken prisoner by a leech monster. Astrena was long gone so he couldn't be acting under her orders now.

"Hear that?" Richard's tense whisper jolted him back to the present reality.

Neal held his breath, listening intently. "I don't hear anything," he reported after a moment.

"Me neither," Travis said. "What was it?"

"A low voice, speaking in French. I can't catch the words."

A moment later the adjoining room was filled with blue light. Screams and an unearthly howl pierced the shack. Neal heard the sounds of glass breaking and water splashes. Did the vampires escape through the window? Or maybe they'd been hurled. Travis was trying to inch his way toward Richard. Neal started doing the same.

Suddenly it grew deathly still. Neal grimaced. Poor choice of adjectives. There were no moans or groans, but the blue light was still there. His nose itched from the dust on the floor. He had a desperate urge to sneeze, and held his breath to stifle it. No need to aggravate a fifolet.

Sweat dripped down Neal's face onto his nose, making the urge to sneeze even stronger. 

Without warning a ball of glowing blue gas appeared. It quickly swelled to fill the room. Neal could barely see the other men.

Richard began pleading for their lives in French. He claimed they were friends of Lafitte. _Good luck, but somehow I don't think a fifolet is open to discourse._ They had their gris-gris bags on. Would that help?

"Take the doubloon!" Richard pleaded. "It's in my pants pocket." He stopped talking as if he was listening. "But I can't get to it . . . You have to give me more time!"

An instant later, the fifolet vanished without a trace.

"What happened?" Travis demanded.

"Did you see him?" Richard asked, swallowing hard.

"Who?" Neal demanded. "The fifolet? All we saw was blue gas. Why were you speaking French to it?"

"I was trying to reason with him, and he wasn't a fifolet, or maybe he was." Richard's voice was quaking badly.

"Whoever he was, he's gone now, sweetheart," Travis said in a calm, reassuring tone Neal had never heard him employ. "Take a deep breath then tell us what you saw."

Richard swallowed, his face even in the dim light white as a sheet. "In the center of the blue gas was a pirate. He said he knew me. If I returned the doubloon, he'd leave us alone. When I told him to take it from my pocket, he said that for the curse to end, I'd have to hand it over at the spot where it had been taken. He gave us till sunrise to return it. He said he'd be waiting for us in the lake. If we don't, we'll be killed."

Time for a miracle. Neal could see their cell phones. There were on the window ledge, but, trussed up as they were, he doubted any of them could reach them. Dean was the only hope they had. But would the fifolet attack him like it had the vampires? And why had it killed the vampires, if they were indeed killed? Perhaps they'd simply fled and were waiting for the fifolet before returning to finish the job.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean pulled to a stop at the water's edge. They'd approached the lake from the north, taking a dirt road for the final hundred yards.

"This is as far as we can go in the Impala," Sam said. "You know, we really should think about getting a four-wheel drive."

"Quiet! She'll hear you." Dean lowered his voice and murmured to the dashboard, ignoring Sam's exaggerated eye-rolling. "Don't pay Sam any mind, Baby. He doesn't appreciate you have more sense than both of us."

"I need to warn Chloe about the other woman in your life," Sam muttered, reaching for his wading boots.

"She already knows, doofus." Dean peered at Travis's GPS locator. "Their location is due east from here."

"Just what I figured. Straight into the swamp." Sam stared into the murky expanse in front of them. The water didn't look too deep. They'd passed a boat rental place a ways back. Maybe they could "borrow" a canoe. Dean had already gotten out of the car. It looked like he was checking for tire tracks.

"See something?" Sam asked when Dean crouched down on the road.

"Yeah, the road's pretty dry, but it looks like a large van or SUV was here recently." Dean scooped up a handful of dirt from along the track and let it sift through his fingers. "The marks are fresh." He stood up and frowned as he surveyed the road ahead. It continued straight into the swamp where it was underwater for extensive stretches.

"There's a shack in the distance," Sam pointed out. "That could be their location. Our only way to get there is to hoof it." It was beyond creepy. An owl flew overhead, startling him. Even the frog calls sounded ominous. Fifolets weren't the only threat in the swamp.

They got out their rifles from the trunk, strapped the machete sheaths to their belts, stuffed darts of dead man's blood in their pockets, and then headed down the road. With no moon to provide light, they had to rely on their flashlights. The air was so saturated with moisture that the few stars visible in the sky were faded shells.

A cloud of blood-sucking mosquitoes hovered around them constantly. Roaches as big as a horse scurried up tree branches.

Dean stopped in his tracks. "You see those eyes?" He swallowed. "They're glowing red. What the hell kind of demon do they belong to?"

The eyes were barely above the surface of the water. "Alligators, I bet. Their eyes are reflecting the light from our flashlights."

Dean's groan rumbled deep in his throat. "Awesome. How much worse can a fifolet be?"

"And don't forget the snakes," Sam reminded him. "This must be ideal habitat for water moccasins."

"Dude, you trying to give me a heart attack?" Dean picked up a stick and poked the water in front of him. "Aren't the gators bad enough?"

"Hey, I used to josh you about snakes, but no more."

Dean chuckled. "Oh, yeah. Neal told me about that snake who crawled up your leg in the New Jersey swamp."

"Did you have to remind me?" Their bickering helped relieve the tension.

When they found what must have been a twelve-foot-long gator sprawled in front of the road, Dean just laughed it off. "Okay, Mr. Wild America, what now?"

"Don't make it mad."

Dean snorted. "Well, that's helpful. You want me to sing it a lullaby?"

"That probably won't help, but you remember that scene in _Live and Let Die_ where James Bond leapfrogs over gators? Haven't you always wanted to reenact it?"

Dean broke into a grin. "Bet I can leap further than you."

"Game on!"

From then on, it was a mad dash. They scrambled and jumped over gators, snakes, turtles, and whatever else was in their way.

As they neared the shack, they slowed their pace. A pickup truck with an extended cab and raised chassis was parked next to the ramshackle structure. Sam stopped to lift the cover over the truck bed, but there was nothing to see. No bloodstains was a positive in his book.

Dean grabbed his arm. "Fifolet off to your right," he hissed, ducking low.

Sam stared at the sphere of blue gas. It was toward the center of the lake and several hundred yards away. Dean had already taken his machete out of its sheath and was approaching the door. Slowly he nudged it open.

"Are you a sight for sore eyes!" Neal's ecstatic greeting was music to their ears. It meant whoever had abducted them was no longer around.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal's relieved exclamation was echoed by Travis and Richard. Uncoiling them from their chain cocoons was no simple matter, making Neal wonder how long it had taken the vampires to truss them up so thoroughly.

None of them suffered from anything worse than bruises and scrapes. Why they'd been abducted in the first place was just one of the puzzles confronting them. Why had the fifolet taken after the vampires instead of them? Not that Neal wasn't grateful, but it didn't make sense.

But before they could work on that mystery, they had a promise to keep.

Neal hotwired the truck to take them back through the swamp. The Winchesters had spotted a boat rental place on their way to the swamp. It was closed, but this was a voodoo emergency. Neal picked the lock on the gate where a fleet of pirogues was theirs for the taking. A few were large enough for three. Travis requisitioned one for himself, Dean, and Richard. Neal and Sam took a standard-sized boat. They planned it such that each boat would contain one curse-free person who could handle the oars if the others were overpowered by pirate ghosts.

The blue glow of the fifolet was still in the swamp. Sam said it hadn't moved since they'd first spotted it. Neal sat in the front of the pirogue as they rowed deeper into the swamp. Insects buzzed around his head. They were trying to row silently, but the lake was filled with vegetation. Every time they dipped their oars into the water, if they didn't spook a frog or snake, it was something else. They weren't using flashlights, so the alligator eyes didn't glow, but Neal suspected that every log they passed was a gator.

Neal paused in mid-stroke as he spotted an animal moving just below the surface of the water. He swallowed hard. Surely not.

"Anything wrong?" Sam demanded.

Neal hesitated. Sam would probably think he was hallucinating, but then again Sam was used to strange sightings. "Is there such a thing as a swamp squid? I think there's one beside us."

"Not to my knowledge. Are you looking at the animal on the right?"

"Yeah."

"That's a young nutria. The adults look like large muskrats. The critter's trailing its hind legs. They do look a little like tentacles. Dean swore he saw a swamp rabbit swimming in the water when we approached the shack."

Sam was being kind. Neal took a deep breath to relax. That would-be squid had seemed almost as terrifying as the fifolet. He resumed paddling. "Lately I've had octopus on my brain," he admitted.

"Everyone has something which sets them off. For Dean, it's snakes. I can't see a clown without freaking out."

"I've been thinking of lovable octopuses to desensitize myself."

Sam shrugged. "I've never bothered to try to like clowns. What's to like?"

Neal wasn't willing to admit defeat yet. He'd just started to work on it. After all, he'd faced down vampires, witches, not to mention human killers. What was so tough about an octopus? Even if they did have tentacles and could camouflage themselves so you didn't know they were there.

No tentacles on the fifolet. The ball of fluorescent blue gas stayed in the same location till they rowed next to it. Richard's pirogue was in front. Neal could see him lean toward the fifolet. Travis was keeping a firm hand on Richard's belt, ready to yank him back in.

Richard held out the doubloon on the palm of his hand. His entire arm was engulfed by blue gas then without warning the fifolet vanished.

"What did you see?" Dean asked.

Richard took a breath. "It was the same pirate. He snatched it out of my hand. I tried to thank him for saving us from the vampires, and he grumbled we could thank him by leaving him in peace."

"I'm sure no one needs the reminder, but that means no searching for buried treasure," Travis said.

Good thing Mozzie wasn't with them to argue the point. Neal was happy to let any pirate chest stay buried. The way things had been going, if he found it, there'd be an octopus resting on the lid.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Crowley found Rana in her office at the bordello. At two o'clock in the morning, there were only a few lingering customers in the lounge. Everyone else was shagging upstairs. 

She looked up from her computer when he dropped onto the velvet settee with a heavy sigh. Sometimes being a demon didn't count for much.

"Your plan didn't go as you wished?" she asked.

"The rats had already fled when Jeremy and I arrived. Somehow they escaped and took the truck with them. We found one fang cowering in the swamp, babbling something about a ball of blue light and a pirate sucking the life force out of his companions."

Rana's eyes widened in her expressive brown face. "Why didn't you tell me a fifolet was involved?"

"How the bloody hell could I do that since I don't know what one is."

When she told him about ghosts who protected pirate loot, Crowley simply rolled his eyes. So typical. Cheekbones must have enlisted his mates to search for buried treasure. Twits.

But, looking on the bright side, this could be a positive sign. Crowley had been convinced they'd come to New Orleans to look for him, but it now looked increasingly likely that they weren't even aware of his presence. "Answer me this. Why would the freakin' fifolet go after my fangs but leave the real looters alone?"

"I don't know," she said. "Perhaps they carried charms or had some other connection to the pirate. The ghost might have been a member of Lafitte's crew. They were a scourge on vampires ever since one of Lafitte's children was killed by a vampire in the early 1800s."

Crowley grunted. It was small comfort to learn this botched attempt wasn't because of any mistake he'd made. Still, what would he have accomplished by interrogating the would-be looters? He already knew the Men of Letters were entrenched in Baltimore. Their alliance with the feds would have continued no matter what torture he'd put the Moose and Squirrel through. He'd nicknamed them after Bullwinkle and Rocky, but perhaps the Chipmunks were more appropriate.

Rana was eyeing him speculatively. "What is it you desire most?" she said seductively.

"To rule over Hell once more." Never one to miss out on ingratiating himself for a return favor, he added in what he liked to think was a passionate rumble, "with you as my queen."

She stood up and walked toward him. Sitting on his lap, she whispered in his ear, "The throne is already taken."

"A fact I'm well aware of. You don't happen to know of any way to get rid of its current occupant?" Abaddon usurped the throne from him, and up to now the demons she commanded had made it impossible for him to reclaim his domain.

"You want to eliminate the Men of Letters. You want your throne back. Why not accomplish both at once?"

Crowley leaned back to study her. What was she concocting in her beautiful head? "Explain."

"Abaddon desires more than anything else to destroy the Men of Letters. She thought she'd succeeded in 1958. If word were to reach her that the Baltimore office was still active, she'd likely return to Earth to destroy it personally."

"Leaving the throne empty, so my forces could claim it for me?"

Rana exchanged smiles with him. "Precisely."

"How would she find out?"

"Her demons are scattered throughout the States. Some even frequent my establishment. One of my girls could let a word or two slip out."

"I'd need time to prepare my loyal followers," he warned even as he lusted to start immediately.

"I'm yours to command."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dean and Sam left the next day, hot on the trail of a rugaru which had been spotted in Shreveport. Before they left, everyone trooped to Gabrielle's for a post-fifolet checkup. Neal wasn't the only one who grew tense waiting for Gabrielle to pass her black light over his palm. Richard clasped Travis's hand nervously all the way to the Quarter. But she declared them curse-free in short order.

As to why the fifolet had attacked the vampires, Gabrielle had a ready explanation. Lafitte had taken a mistress in New Orleans, a woman named Catherine Villard. To describe her, Gabrielle used the old term mulatto, meaning a free woman of mixed African and European blood. Lafitte had sired several children by Catherine in addition to those he later had with his wife. One of Catherine's sons had been killed by a vampire, and Lafitte had taken revenge by decapitating several personally. Gabrielle was herself one of Catherine's descendants. That made her and Richard very distant cousins. 

By the time Mozzie showed up on Monday afternoon, the terror of that night had faded. When Mozzie asked what he'd missed, Neal didn't know where to start. Pirate treasure, the fifolet, voodoo curses, vampires—anyone but Mozzie would think he was making it all up. And that gave him the idea for how to handle it at work.

On Wednesday, when Neal and Travis returned to the office, their strategy was ready. The festivities began with another king cake, thermoses of coffee and chicory, and beads for everyone. One special person got an extra present.

Diana broke into a grin when she peered into the gift bag and pulled out the violet plush animal. "An octopus writer's hat! Thank you!"

"You're welcome," Neal said, smiling at her enthusiasm.

She proceeded to slap the critter on her head. "I hope Mozzie got a writer's hat too?"

"Of course. His is pistachio-green. The tentacles look like long dreadlocks. You'll make quite a pair." He turned to Peter. "How was your weekend?"

"Exhausting, in a word," Peter said, licking the sugar off his fingers. "The kid cried the entire first day, but by the second we'd achieved an uneasy détente." He raised a brow. "No monsters at your end, I take it?"

"Sorry, Peter," Neal said, giving him a sympathetic wince, "but this was New Orleans."

His face immediately grew tense as Neal knew it would. "Lay it on me."

"Let's see, there were the vampires in the swamp. They were quickly followed by the ghost of a dead pirate."

"And don't forget the cursed doubloon and voodoo spell," Travis prompted.

"I couldn't leave them out," Neal agreed with a smile.

Diana and Jones were already laughing, and Peter broke into a chuckle as well.

"They're pulling your leg," Jones declared. "Were those all parade revelers?"

"And floats," Neal said. "I haven't even gotten to the zombies yet."

"My favorite was the Krewe of Voodoo parade," Travis said. "No, on second thought, it would have to be Mozzie's fractal pancakes." He turned to Peter. "Mozzie reminded me that Fat Tuesday was also the birthday of Pierre Fatou, a French mathematician and one of the pioneers in fractals. Mozzie's pancakes were a sight to behold."

As Travis droned on about Fatou sets and polynomials, Neal could stand back and enjoy mission accomplished. He and Travis had agreed to be truthful but they realized no one would believe them.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

That evening, Neal gave Henry a call from his loft. "Dean told me about the Men of Letters," Neal said. "Have you been able to find out anything else about them?"

"It's a secret society, acting like hunters but with a scholarly bent. The organization supposedly still exists in England, but the American chapters all disappeared in the 1950s."

"So Seth could have been a member."

"Yeah, but it's ancient history now," Henry said. "Bobby cautioned me against trying to approach the British Men of Letters, assuming I could track them down. They have the reputation of being ruthless and more than a little paranoid."

"Scholars aren't known for their fighting skills," Neal said. "Perhaps that's why they were wiped out in the States."

"Quite possibly. Like artists, they have no business tackling demons."

Neal didn't comment on Henry's none-too-subtle jab, although, honestly, nobody should have to face demons.

"The group provides a plausible reason why Seth Winslow disappeared," Henry continued. "If he believed his friend Chester was killed by vampires and the vampires were out to get him as well, he could have assumed a new identity to protect his family."

"I'd recommend not telling Mozzie about the Men of Letters. Between the Culper Ring and the Illuminati, he already has enough on his plate."

Henry chuckled. "Too late, he'd already heard about them from Bobby. Would you believe he called me to find out if Win-Win has any information on the Tudor Crown?"

Neal groaned. "I'm not surprised. He believes the Culper Ring had acquired it from the Illuminati and hid it somewhere in the Northeast."

"Sounds like a harmless theory. Kinda like his Hitler clones. No point in bursting his bubble."

Neal nodded absently. Their talk of secrets was making him want to scratch his latest itch.

"You said you heard about the Men of Letters from Dean," Henry said. "Did you run into him in New Orleans?"

Neal took a breath. That twin telepathy he and Henry had going was as strong as ever. "We chanced upon him in the French Quarter."

"He was there on a job, right?"

"Yep, and our club has two more members." Neal and Henry had formed Conspirators Anonymous to help avoid hidden agendas. So far, the main benefit was that they didn't hide secrets from each other. Hiding things from Peter was another matter.

"Hmm. You were in New Orleans with Richard and Travis. Using my razor-sharp deduction skills, I surmise something happened that you're not telling Peter about."

"You just scored a bulls-eye. The three of us discussed it, and we agreed that since it ended well with no repercussions, there was no reason to make friends and co-workers stress about it."

"But I'm not in that category," Henry pointed out.

"No, you're not and I'm glad." Henry's reaction to the tale of voodoo, ancient curses, and pirate ghosts was about what he'd expected. Henry had already heard enough about Neal's previous adventures with the Winchesters to not doubt his words.

"You know how Peter worries about me being a vampire magnet," Neal said. "If he hears about this, he'll never let me go anywhere."

"Yeah, our policy of openness needs to have a few exceptions included, like for supernatural phenomena."

"Agreed, especially when the news would cause undue stress. I've told Sara though. She's a member of our club."

"And I'll alert Eric. He's also a charter member." Henry paused for a moment. "I don't think we're in violation of the club's tenets. You told me. We're informing others. This is more like the confidential cases you and I work on for our jobs."

"Exactly," Neal said, delighted at Henry's take. "We're simply adhering to best business practices."

* * *

_Notes: Oh, Crowley, you're letting your paranoia get out of hand. It's truly a bad idea to lure Abaddon back from Hell. The results will be the subject of the next Crossed Lines story, Cheekbones Caffrey, which I'll post this coming October._

_Fun facts: Alligator eyes really do appear to glow demonic red in the night. Their eyes have a special adaption to allow them to see better in low light which causes the effect. A swamp filled with them can be a scary sight indeed. There's a pin of the gators Dean and Sam saw on the Pinterest board. I also have a pin of Mozzie's fractal pancakes. Neal might have been right about an octopus being on top of a treasure chest. Supposedly they're attracted to bright shiny objects. Marine archaeologists claim octopuses help point the way to lost artifacts._

_Thanks to Penna Nomen for beta help and thanks to you for reading! Next week I'll begin posting an Arkham Files story called Queen's Gambit. Diana let Mozzie write most of it and he included two of his favorite topics—time travel and the Tudor Crown._

_Penna recently moved. She discusses the experience in her latest blog post, "[Disorientation: writing a story is like moving into a new house](https://pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com/2020/08/disorientation-writing-story-is-like.html)."   
_

_Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: [www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)_   
_Chapter Visuals and Music: The Voodoo Remoulade board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:[www.pinterest.com/caffreycon](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)_   
_Twitter:[@silbrith](https://twitter.com/silbrith)_


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